Coupling? Perhaps Perhaps
by Kayzel
Summary: Ever hear of a To-do Tuesday or the phenomenon known as the Glacial Shift? Neither had Paul Bowman until he met the lads of the bar. A Coupling/Monarch of the Glen story.


_Ever since seeing Lloyd Owen as James in a few episodes of Coupling I've wondered how one of Lloyd's other characters -- that of Paul Bowman from MotG, would fare in the Coupling realm. Though if unfamiliar with MotG, there should still be enough information provided of Paul's character to follow his position in the story. _

_ I do not own these characters or their respective worlds, but have had a great deal of fun creating this piece. _

_**Coupling? Perhaps…Perhaps…**_

_**London, 2002**_

Paul Bowman was not a rash man. Standing well over 6 foot tall with a handsome face and a rugged yet lean build he cut quite the figure especially when wearing his military dress, the drab olive uniform showcasing his bright blue eyes and a deep red beret—the paratrooper's standard—placed perfectly askew. Honest, cautious, stalwart and steady, he was. Or had been, because one thing was certain, Paul Bowman wouldn't be wearing his army kit any time soon. Sometimes even the best do slip.

He hadn't expected to find her. London was such a big city, so easy to become lost in particularly if that was one's intent. But as luck would have it the Susan Walker listed in the directory of the French Academy where both she and Paul had taken classes was, in fact, _the_ Susan Walker, _his_ Susan Walker—the Susan Walker he'd spent one whole glorious summer with many years before and hearing her voice, tinny though it sounded through the lousy phone connection was the only confirmation needed.

Their chat just two days prior had been short and succinct, efficient was how Susan would have termed it, name, rank and serial number, soldier. Paul was used to that. In their swift five minute conversation Susan had managed to give Paul a location, time and day when they could meet. Would he be able to find the bar in question? Absolutely, Paul assured her. He was a natural-born leader with a nearly unblemished military record to prove it, skillful at commandeering his regiment to safety through the worst of conditions like the worn-torn mountains of Kosovo; reading a map of _the City_, navigating its smoky concrete terrain would be, for him, a piece of cake, a walk in the park. Perhaps, he reasoned, things would be looking up after all.

_**Bar**_

_**6:30 pm**_

_**Tuesday**_

Maneuvering carefully through clusters of rain-drizzled, work-knackered thirty-somethings at the local dive, known simply as _Bar_ Steve Taylor found two empty seats at the far end of the bartender's counter, set down his beer and turned toward his friend. "So let me get this straight, Jeff."

"Right, go on then." Laid-back Jeff Murdock, his thick, wiry hair even more unruly owing to the humid, rainy broth London had been socked in for days, couldn't have been more the opposite of polished, buttoned-up and guarded Steve, but despite this they considered each other best mates.

"The most gorgeous creature you've ever laid eyes on approaches you not once, not twice but thrice," Steve held up three fingers for effect, "before the noon hour today to ask you for your assistance."

"Yes, said she was a new employ of the company."

"And in the course of her interactions with you," Steve further clarified, "she just happens to mention that she's always fancied a Welsh accent."

"Yeah, it's funny that, huh? I mean seeing as she isn't Welsh. And I am."

"Yes, Jeff," Steve said patiently, "I believe that was the point."

"How do you mean? Oh," Jeff's confused expression turned at once to recognition and then to a smile, haughty and salacious, "she fancied the accent on me, didn't she? How 'bout that! Chalk one up for the debonair Welshman then, eh?"

"Yup, that's more the _disturbed_ Welshman I think, at any rate, you show her to the canteen, correct?"

"Yes, well I mean she asked me to. Normally I don't go there. Brings back too many memories of eating in the school cafeteria, it does. Grey mystery meat, cold potatoes and smashed peas all squashed together."

"Ah yes, the ubiquitous Chef's Special, all the left-over bits ground up and formed into thin, tasteless patties then plopped onto the trays of unsuspecting, hungry young students. I suppose we didn't know any better, followed the lot like lemmings, we did."

"No Steve, I used to bring my lunch from home. 'Cept my Mum didn't make me sandwiches, no. She'd just take whatever we'd had for our dinner the night before, wrap it tightly in cling film and shove it in a paper bag. _Eat your vegetables, Jeffery._ _Don't trade your lunch, Jeffery._ I mean who would've wanted to trade with me? Then," Jeff's mind slipped away to a vision only he could see, "there was that lunch lady with the hourglass figure. Oh man! I could've spent hours ogling her. I probably did spend hours ogling her, if you think about it cumulatively. Of course if your gaze went anywhere north of her neck the whole image was ruined. She was nearing 70," Jeff shuddered, "and had this huge, nasty, hairy wart on her chin. Worse than a cold shower that was."

Closing his eyes against the mental picture forming before him, Steve took a deep breath. "Let's stay focused here, mate. So, you end up eating lunch with this lovely, raven-haired lady."

"Yes. Breasts," Jeff chortled like a school boy. His frequent, neurotic use of the word breast—whether germane to topic or not was akin to a person unknowingly peppering his speech with filler words such as _um_, _like_ or _you know_. "Hot, delicious, smothered breasts they were," Jeff smiled lewdly until his eyes met Steve's censorious glare. "No, Steve that was the dish on offer at lunch today, chicken breasts smothered in gravy and cheese. Far cry from mystery meat."

"Difficult as this may be for you," Steve implored, "try and stay with me here Jeff. So this new interest of yours, she did most of the talking, did she? Yes, that explains a lot."

"I know it right? Bless her. I mean you know how I get when I see a gorgeous woman? I'm all sweaty, nervous and tongue-tied. I don't think she noticed any of it she just kept on talking and talking."

"And she told you of her quaint sea-side up-bringing in East Anglia, mentioned she knew no one in the big, scary city and also that she was looking to make some new friends and as such, tipped you off that her calendar was virtually free."

"Yes Steve, it's all just like I told you."

"Chuffed, were you?"

"Yes, you bet!"

"Just have one more question for you then, Jeff."

Steve's tendency to over-dramatize even the most trivial of events coupled with the fact that up to this point he had remained eerily calm, left Jeff feeling hesitant. "Shoot."

"Why the hell, in the name of all unlucky blokes the world round, didn't you bloody ask her out!?" Uttered more loudly than he'd intended, his eyes popping and the veins on his forehead and neck pulsating, Steve reached for his pint and took a large gulp.

Doing the same, Jeff wiped his mouth on his sleeve and shrugged, answering calmly, "Because today is Tuesday."

"What?" Exasperated, finding not one shred of common sense in Jeff's response, Steve's tone escalated to a high effeminate pitch. "Today is Tuesday? Your explanation is that today is Tuesday? I'm sure I'm going to regret asking but what has the fact that it was a Tuesday got anything to do with it?"

"Hello gents." The third musketeer, self-proclaimed playboy Patrick Maitland, sidled up the bar with a beer and a packet of crisps. "You're, um drawing a little more attention to yourselves than usual this evening, mates. Remember, this is the early crowd, the responsible just-got-off-from-work-stopping-by-the-pub-on-the-way-home crowd—a bit quieter than the average half past 10, twenty-odd slacker lot."

"Yes, thank you Patrick, for your insight. Wouldn't want to steal the spotlight away from you now would we. But perhaps you could explain to me why Jeff here couldn't ask out a woman today, a woman who practically threw herself at him and who, considering the blundering fool he becomes round members of the opposite sex with whom he fancies, didn't seem to give a toss!"

"That's easy mate."

"Oh really Patrick, is it? Well do tell. I'd love to hear your rational, justifiable reasoning for this."

"Well apart from Jeff being Jeff, it's obvious, isn't it? Today's Tuesday."

"Right nope," Steve contemplated, "still not following."

"Well, there's no chance of getting any action on a Tuesday is there, mate?"

"Isn't there? Wait, you mean to tell me that you, Patrick Maitland, known to bed a woman solely on the basis of how sexually she's said hello to you has never had sex on a Tuesday?"

"Sex, yes. Quality sex," Patrick shrugged, "never."

"Think about it, Steve. Have you ever had quality sex on a Tuesday?"

"I've no idea, not like I'm keeping a running tally or anything, Jeff."

"Don't you?" Jeff shook his head, "No, sorry off topic."

"Look Steve, asking a girl out on a To-do Tuesday is a waste. She's got far too much going on up here," Patrick pointed to his head, "to focus on anything down there."

"Having sex with you is just another thing she has to tick off her list, Steve. It's a To-do Tuesday."

"In fact," Patrick further qualified, "Sunday through Tuesday are generally bad days to ask out a woman. She's still thinking about how she's wasted her weekend, planning the rest of the days ahead."

"Would think you'd grasp at any possibility of getting some Jeff, knowing your track record, quite a dry spell it's been. Okay, maintaining my focus here. I imagine Thursday through Saturday is safe. Everybody knows the real weekend starts on Thursday. Dare I ask? Have any specific rules for Wednesdays then?"

"Heya, Wednesday's Hump Day," Jeff whispered bawdily, partially closing his eyes, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

"Yes, you do know that's not meant literally, Jeff. It signifies one's made it through the middle of the work week."

"But she's so glad to be over the hump, weekend's in sight," Jeff's hips gyrated, "anything's possible on a Willing Wednesday!"

_**Bar**_

_**6:30 pm**_

_**Tuesday**_

Paying his cab fare, Paul Bowman side-stepped a puddle then stood by the curb for a moment, taking in his surroundings. The vibe of the area felt young and fresh and he hoped the energetic atmosphere would bode well for him. His funk was understandable, of course. It was just coming up on a month and a half since he'd buried his mother—four weeks longer than the allowed Compassionate Leave the military had granted him. He couldn't really say what he'd done during this time, but coming home to an empty house every night made it feel like he hadn't come home at all.

A vagabond he'd been the last few weeks, wandering around old haunts and stomping grounds, reliving his youth. But it was the little French Patisserie that had just opened way up there in North Country, in the center of his hometown in Yorkshire that had reminded him of Susan Walker. _Giselle's_, the bakery was called.

They'd been paired together by Madame Lovell in the language class they'd taken at the French Academy one summer in the early ninety's. Being more experienced than Paul with the intricacies of the language, Susan offered to tutor him off-campus as well. Paul had outfitted his temporary quarters, a small, modest flat just off the High Street in all things French, gracing the bare walls with inexpensive, dime-store posters of the Eiffel Tower and impressionist prints of Monet's _Irises in Monet's Garden_ and _Water Lilies_. Conjugating verbs, speaking the language of love, they'd study until late in the evening, sipping cheap imported wine and dining on wheels of warmed-over brie and toasted bread. Eventually, they'd awaken together too, starting each day with breakfast in bed; stale croissants, tepid café au lait, and the most genuine sense of contentment and happiness, of youth and independence, of Joie De Vivre.

Back to present day, restless and unsatisfied with his jaunts up and down the coast, London was where Paul found himself next, ringing up Ms. Walker. Not knowing her current situation. Was she now a Mrs.? Had she a family? Whatever the case, if he could spend just one night with Suzy, one night with the only woman he'd ever been his real self with, free and uninhibited it would be worth everything he'd risked.

Feeling cold droplets of rain drumming down on his skull, Paul noticed up ahead a rather small, non-descript neon sign affixed to an enclosed structure composed of frosted glass walls which rose from a descending staircase rimmed in black wrought iron gating and protruded into the air at a slant. The red-lettered sign blinked, _Bar_. Beckoned by the electric cobalt glow emanating from behind the opaque glass he went forth, the stellar soldier with the unblemished record, now sullied, now wayward—now, A.W.O.L.

_**Harper's Beauty Salon **_

_**6:30 pm**_

_**Tuesday**_

"Thanks, Sal." Susan Walker held up her hands, fingers splayed, admiring her freshly manicured nails. "This color is brilliant! It's very professional looking. Nude, but not too neutral if you know what I mean. It has an edge to it."

"Yes," Sally Harper hung the closed sign, drew the shades and locked the door to her beauty salon, "it's a brighter shade of pale."

"Hey, those are song lyrics, Sally."

"They're what, Jane?"

"Song lyrics. You know," Jane grabbed a Lucite brush, pulled up the collar of her rhinestone-detailed jeans jacket and warbled, "We've tripped up the last tango..."

"No, no, no, Jane."

"Well I know I don't have the greatest voice, Susan but I don't think my singing is as bad as all that. I mean honestly, you can be so harsh at times."

"It's not your singing I object to, Jane—though you're right, I'd skip karaoke if I were you. No, it's the words. You've got them all wrong."

"Do I?"

"Yes, the lyrics are, we skipped the light fandango, not we've tripped up the last tango. A mondegreen, it's called, when one mishears words."

"Mondegreen, ha-ha," Sally settled down at a cosmetics table, giggling at Jane's expense.

"All right miss know it all, what about the other bit then, the shade part?"

"Ah well yes it's a whiter, not a brighter shade of pale, you know to imply that something is even paler than pale."

"Like Sal's skin, you mean?"

"What's wrong with my skin?" Sally, ever-insecure about her looks lurched forward to within an inch of the mirror, pinching her cheeks and scrutinizing her face. "Color isn't healthy for the skin, I mean in the form of exposure to the sun that is. The sun causes damages that are positively invisible to the naked eye," her anxiety mounting, it manifested itself in the rapid, faltering staccato of her voice. "Then in time age spots develop without warning. They just appear. I'm going to wake up one morning and find the topographical map of Sally etched into my face in the form of wrinkles and brown spots. Sure Jane, you can be cavalier about it all, you've been graced with that nice olive complexion! Not the pasty matrix of cells posing as medical gauze, posing as skin that I've been cursed with!"

"But," Standing behind Sally the self-assured Susan placed her perfectly-polished hands on her best friend's shoulders and offered her a bit of mental bolstering, "you have the tightest pores this side of the Thames."

"Yes, Susan yes, you're right, I do, don't I?" Sally exhaled, "Oh thank you for putting things into perspective for me. I feel all better now."

"Grand, then let's go unwind."

"Do either of you fancy splitting a curry and a bottle of wine at _Solo_?"

"Tempting as that sounds, Jane I'm afraid I'll have to pass. I'm actually heading over to the bar to meet up with an old friend."

"Really? Does Steve know?"

"Steve? Yes, I'm meeting him there too, why?"

"Well you know how your boyfriend can get, Susan. Jealousy, thy name is Steve Taylor."

"Oh no, c'mon Sal, Steve's not that bad."

"You prepped him ahead of time, didn't you?"

"Well yes, Jane I mean I had to tell him I was meeting someone, didn't I?"

"Ah, but you could have met him on your own." Sally turned to Jane, "Maybe she _wants_ to make Steve jealous. What do you think?"

"Listen to the pair of you! You've only supposed my friend is a man, I never did say."

"Is it a woman?" Jane asked curiously, "Hmm, don't think Steve would be jealous of her then, though one never knows, do they? It might actually be kind of interesting to tag along."

_**Bar**_

_**7 pm**_

_**The Glacial Shift**_

A frustrated Steve, mumbling about it being a blasted Tuesday, abandoned the conversation which he hadn't entirely squared in his head and set off for the men's room.

"Shall we go round to the upholstered seats then?" Agreeing, Jeff followed Patrick to the center of the bar where a grouping of two cognac hued leather chairs and a couch done in cranberry suede were set around a low table. The bar itself, decorated with colorful artwork and accented with creamy citrus shades in orange and lime, muted pomegranate and rich blueberry, felt more contemporary living room than old-world pub. As regular patrons of the establishment they'd felt a certain entitlement to reserve this centrally located seating area, which was roomy and offered an unobstructed view of the entrance staircase although nothing, other than their bodies glued to the seats for the night—nearly every night, indicated it as such. On this particular evening however, surprised to find an unknown someone sitting in their officially-unofficial designated space the two men stopped short then encircled the furniture, hungry sharks out for the kill.

The uninvited guest sitting relaxed in one corner of the couch, his right arm fully extended over the sofa's smoothly rounded back appeared unruffled by the circling men. "I get the feeling I'm sitting on marked territory here," Paul Bowman quipped, looking from one guy to the other. "Awkward this, I hope Monica, Phoebe and Rachel will be joining us too."

"Clever. The couch, the bar, the situation—it's _Friends_ humor. Funny that," Patrick laughed. "Okay I'm the good-looking chap." He snapped his fingers repeatedly in thought, "What was his name?"

"Chandler," Jeff offered.

"Yes," Patrick touched a finger to his nose and pointed to Jeff, "bingo!"

Addressing Steve as he returned from the loo, Jeff, lapsing expertly into an Italian-American accent, winked and said, "Hey, how you doin'?"

"What?" Irritation flooding Steve's voice, he replied, "Oh, I see, we're playing _Friends _now are we? I'm guessing you're Joey? And I suppose Patrick, you're Chandler? Left me to be that boring bloke Ross did you? Ha! Didn't think I could keep up with you, 'eh? Not sure I knew the lingo? Course you've entirely glossed over the fact that the show was set in a coffee bar in New York, not a proper bar in merry ol' England. Minor details those. Well I'm not going to be Ross, so how's that? In fact, I was just in the _Gents_ with Ross and he said," Pausing, Steve analyzed his words. "I mean," he stuttered, desperate to explain. "I wasn't _in_ the _Gents_ with Ross. I was in the _Gents_, comma, and Ross was in there too. Actually Ross wasn't in the _Gents_ at all. In fact no one else was in the _Gents_. I was in the _Gents_ alone."

"Right," disregarding Steve's rambling comments, Patrick addressed a baffled Paul. "New in town are you, mate?"

"Just passing through, I'm meeting up with an old friend."

"Don't mind if we join you then? Not expecting a crowd, are you?"

"No," Paul said enthusiastically, "just one very fine woman."

"Great. Lads," Patrick motioned for everyone to sit. "Yeah my name's Patrick, that there is Steve and that's Jeff."

"Hiya, good to meet you all," Paul refrained from adding, _I think_. "The name's Paul."

"Is she a pretty woman, Paul? The woman you're waiting for."

Taken aback by the odd, immature forwardness of Jeff's question, Paul hemmed and hawed, "Well yes, I would imagine she still is. Haven't seen her in about 10 years I'm afraid."

"Well," Patrick snorted, "I wouldn't get your hopes up then, mate. Always best not to expect too much, trust me, you'll only be setting yourself up for disappointment. Ten years is a long time for a woman, things tend to um, migrate, shall we say."

"Aye," Jeff interjected, "the Glacial Shift."

"The what," Steve questioned, then mocked, "Does that also have something to do with today being a Tuesday?"

"No," sniffed Jeff, "don't be daft, Steve. Go on Patrick."

"Yes, well they're like glaciers, women are. Sure, time appears to be on their side, standing still for them, but all along little by little, millimeter by millimeter they've been sliding. Happens right before our eyes it does, only so slowly we can't actually see that it's happening. Then before we know it, years have gone by, hairline fissures have turned into deep cracks, everything's shifted ten inches down stream, and all their edges have softened. The Glacial Shift."

"Ha! Interesting theory, but it wasn't quite like that with us. See we, Suzy and I, we had more of a cerebral connection. The fact that she was easy on the eyes was a bonus."

"Oh," said Jeff, clearly disillusioned, "so you're saying it wasn't a _physical_ relationship then?"

"Well no, I didn't say that, either. Listen," Paul grabbed his empty pilsner glass and stood, "as thanks for your so graciously allowing me to park my arse on a boulder here in your man cave, the next round's on me. Be back in a tick."

_**En Route to Bar**_

_**7 pm**_

Struggling with an umbrella, it's sunny, fresh egg yolk shade an optimistic exclamation point in the rain-steeped grey evening, it became caught up in an errant gust of wind and forcibly turned inside out. Collapsing its bent, misshapen ribs, Sally pitched the scrambled mess into the nearest rubbish bin, aggravatingly succumbing to the dampened air. "Mother Nature is a sister. So where is the camaraderie here? Why has she been subjecting her fellow females to this awful weather for nearly a week? Women can be so cruel when they turn on each other. I shouldn't have listened to you, why do I always listen to you. I should have hailed a cab on my own!"

"Take a taxi two blocks? Nonsense, Sally besides, the rain makes my straight hair much fuller, doesn't it?"

"Yes well bravo to you, Jane."

"Susan, tell us more about your friend."

"There's not much to tell." Susan ran her fingers through her shoulder-length hair, separating the honey colored strands which were slick with moisture. "I haven't seen him in years. We did keep up a correspondence by post for a while. But you know how things go."

"How did he get in touch with you?"

"Just called out of the blue this past Sunday, said something about finding my name in a directory, decided to ring me up since he was in town."

"How long will he be in London, did he say?"

"Not really, no. When I asked his reply was, 'that depends.'"

"That depends?" Sally questioned, concerned, "On what?"

"Don't know Sally."

"So, was he a friend, friend then?"

"What do you mean a friend, friend?"

"You know," Sally repeated with emphasis, "a _friend_, friend." The three women dashed diagonally across the roadway, jay-walking their way to the bar's entrance.

"What she means is did you sleep with him?"

"Jane!" Both Sally and Susan shouted.

"Well there's no sense in couching it, is there? I mean that is what you wanted to know, right? Were you intimate?"

"Yes," Susan replied, a bit perturbed, "yes, we were intimate."

"Frequently?"

"Jane!!"

_**Bar**_

_**7:15 pm**_

Paul handed round the beers.

"Cheers mate. And it looks like you're in luck, Paul! Here come Phoebe, Rachel and Monica right now, or rather, our three lovely, albeit soggy lady friends. Come join us, girls. That's Jane, our artsy-fartsy Phoebe, if you will, and there's Rachel, our very pretty Sally, and posing as the brainy Monica, we have…where's she gone? I could have sworn I saw Sus.."

"Here I am Patrick," Having leaned over to re-tie her calf-high boot, Susan straightened her frame and tossed back her hair.

"Suzy," Paul exclaimed. Oblivious to anyone else, he rushed up to Susan, embracing her.

"Suzy?" said the others, visibly thrown. They formed a tight circle around the entangled pair.

Separating herself from his bear hug, Susan faced her friends, nodding to each of the men. "Steve, Jeff, Patrick. A bit of a surprise this is. Have all you males bonded then?"

"Do you know these guys, Susan?"

"Yes, you might say that, Paul. Steve here's my boyfriend."

"Bloody hell."

"Not much of a Glacial Shift going on there," Jeff whispered in the background, "lucky bastard."

"Susan?" In a split second an anxious Steve was standing between the couple, "Might I have a word with you?" He glared up at Paul, "In private, please."

"Excuse me Paul, will you? This will only take a minute."

"Susan?" Steve made sure they were completely hidden behind a partial wall before speaking. "Or should I call you Suzy? Who is this bloke?"

"Steve, I told you, tonight I was meeting my old friend Paul."

"A."

"Ah? What's that supposed to mean? Ah? Look what is the matter with you, Steve? Have you suddenly developed some sort of facial tick?"

"No Susan, I haven't developed a facial tick! I said _a_," he emphasized the singular letter, "not _ah_. I thought you said you were meeting an old friend named Paul-a."

"Oh I see _a_ not _ah_. No wonder you reacted so casually when I told you. Here I am thinking you've turned over a new leaf and it's all up to a simple case of your mishearing me. So what's the diff anyway?"

"What's the diff?" A highness crept into his voice again. "I mean look at him!"

"Yes?"

"Well?"

"Well what, Steve? Hmmm, maybe the girls were right. Maybe subconsciously I did want to make you jealous!"

"Jealous? You think I'm jealous? Jealous of what, that 7 foot Adonis standing just round the corner there? Bollocks!! It's not likely, Susan."

"Right, well that's too bad, really. I kind of liked the idea of you being all jealous, of fighting the Adonis to win me over. I'd have been so grateful to you, my gladiator; I'd have done nearly anything for you to show just how appreciative I was. But now, mustn't keep Paul waiting."

_**Susan & Paul's Conversation**_

Emerging from behind the partitioned wall, Susan found Paul still mingling with her friends. Catching his eye, she beckoned him to join her at a two-top in the corner.

"So," Susan began twirling a golden lock of hair with her index finger.

"So," Paul seated himself, "your friends are um," he fished for the appropriate word.

"Strange? Intrusive," Susan's tone softened becoming almost apologetic, "well-meaning?"

"Yes, I was going to say protective. Have your best interest at heart it seems they do."

"Aye, I'm lucky and grateful to have them."

"Well Suzy," Their visit was feeling more first date—tense, uncomfortable and nerve-wracking than a relaxed reunion of two old friends though the air between them was charged with an exciting, thrilling energy. "You look great."

"Thanks, I can say the same for you. Certainly have bulked up a bit I see. Always afraid, you were that your scrawny body would never catch up to your muscularly broad shoulders." Paul nodded and struck a pose.

"Do you remember? That long summer we shared together? All the fun we had?"

"Yes. Good times, those. Paul, why are you really here?"

"This is where you requested we meet, isn't it?" He smiled mischievously, looking around for, and then pointing out the pub sign displaying the name, _Bar_.

"No, that's not what I meant."

"I know what you meant, Suzy. The truth of it is I'm not sure. Honestly I'm feeling an intruder here. I've mixed feelings knowing the life story of Susan Walker, your own book continued on after our shared story ended so abruptly. But truly, I'm happy for you. Your life is full of chapters still unwritten."

"Paul! Why so dire? Surely your life has been just as fascinating and rich, if not more so. I imagine your own book to be an adventure or perhaps even a travel log whereas mine's, well mine's more of a good, juicy beach read." Susan laughed openly and her huge green eyes sparkled in the dim light.

"Well it's certainly been one hell of a journey, I'll give you that much. Exciting, frightening at times, my military experience has been very fulfilling. And now I've done it all in and thrown it all away."

"Why? How do you mean?" Each speaking from the heart, they'd managed to settle into their comfortable relationship again, sitting as if in old times at the rickety table in Paul's tiny flat discussing away the hours, imprudently attempting with blissful naiveté to solve all of life's stickiest problems. "Tell me all about it, Paul."

_**Susan & Paul's Conversation**_

_**And How It Was (Mis)Interpreted…**_

"Can anyone see what they're saying?" Perched on an arm of the cranberry-hued couch, Sally peered into the darkened corner where Paul and Susan sat. "I mustn't squint," she reminded herself out loud, "lest I want to end up with permanent crow's feet edging my eyes."

"That's fine, I don't want to know what they're saying, Sal," slouched beside her on the couch, Steve groaned, "unless, it's the Adonis saying goodbye."

"Nah, don't sweat it, mate," Patrick tried to be encouraging. "You've got nothing to worry about where Susan's concerned."

"Yes he does. I mean did you see him, Patrick? Good looks, height, a brain, he's got the whole package, hasn't he?"

Steve's breathing was becoming erratic.

"Yes," Patrick spoke through clenched teeth, "not really helping here Jane, thank you."

Kneeling on one of the leather chairs, Jeff leaned over and fixed his gaze on the couple. "Hang on. From here I think I can read what they're saying to each other."

"What, you mean like a deaf person who reads lips?"

"No Patrick, I'm not deaf and I can't read their lips, I'm too far away. But I can understand their conversation purely through watching their actions." Turning back to the others he explained, "See, when I was young I trained myself to watch the telly with the volume turned off so my Mum wouldn't know I'd switched on the set. It's all done by observation. Used to work a trick, it did. I'll have a go at it here, shall I?" Jeff faced Susan and Paul's direction again. "Okay, Paul's touching his chest, you know, near his heart." He mimicked the movement. "He's telling Susan that he loves her so much."

"What is Susan doing?"

"She's nodding her head in understanding. Now they've joined hands across the table. Susan said she can't believe that all of her dreams are coming true. She's saying yes, she feels the same as him." In a female voice Jeff said, "I love you too, Paul."

His breathing difficulties escalating, sweat poured from Steve's ashen face.

"Paul is reaching into his pocket. He's pulled out something tiny, very, very tiny."

A glimmer of hope produced, Steve perked up, "How tiny exactly?"

"It's a box. He's holding out a wee box. And it's hinged."

"Like the kind an engagement ring comes in," Sally, on tenterhooks, wondered.

"Yeah, yeah and Susan is so surprised, she's covered her mouth with her hands. Now she's taking the box from Paul and she's examining it. Whoa." Jeff sat right way round on the chair.

"What's happened? Jeff Murdock, on fear of death you sodding Welshman, tell me what has just happened!"

"She kissed him, Steve."

"Lips or cheek," both Jane and Sally asked.

Sally offered clarification to the befuddled men. "Has she given him a kiss on the lips or on the cheek?"

"Cheek," Jeff said, recalling it in his mind, "yes, yes it was definitely on the cheek. Both cheeks, actually."

"Both cheeks, oh well that's fine then isn't it," Jane remarked, smiling at Sally.

"Whew! Close call, that!"

"Excuse me," Steve straightened himself up on the couch, his pallor turning a healthier shade, "the woman I'm about to propose to," there was an audible, collective gasp, everyone staring wide-eyed in disbelief of their commitment-shy pal, "okay someday, yes the woman whom someday in future I'll ask to marry me has just kissed the Adonis, and all the two of you can say is no problem?"

"Well yes, Steve," Sally explained matter-of-factly, "it was only a kiss on the cheeks."

"Care to elaborate," Patrick asked, intrigued.

"Aye," Jeff snickered, raising his eyebrows and grinning lasciviously, "I suppose it depends on which cheeks."

Ignoring Jeff, Sally continued. "It's like this. A peck on both cheeks is considered a pleasantry. A mere thanks, friend. A kiss on one cheek means the intent was to kiss on the lips but somehow the mark was missed, either the kisser lost their nerve or perhaps the kissee is a step ahead, wants to ward off any mouth contact. And a kiss on the lips, well," Sally brushed her hands away and folded them across her chest, "don't need to explain that one now do I?"

"Right, that one means imminent death," Patrick added downing a handful of peanuts, "What? Well it could do. It's a Sicilian thing."

"But wait, Sal. There's still the matter of the engagement ring. That's a case where size really does matter."

"Oh you're right, Jane! Jewelry always trumps a kiss. That changes everything. I'll have to mention how lovely I look in purple, you know in case Susan's looking for ideas on dressing her bride's maids. Course I'll be the maid of honor so, my gown will be better, I mean, a different color you know, a prettier shade than yours, Jane."

_**Susan & Paul's Conversation**_

_**What Really Happened…**_

"Are things serious with you and Steve, Susan?"

"Not sure I can answer to that just yet but, do I think he's the one? Yeah, I do. What about you Paul, any prospects?"

"No, 'fraid not. Have to get everything else sorted out first, I suppose. You know now that I've come here I feel pretty foolish."

"Well, you shouldn't do. We needed this. Closure I think it's called." Susan sighed, "We've tripped up the last tango."

"Sorry?"

"It's nothing. Shall we go and join the others? Have one for the road as they say?"

As Susan and Paul approached her friends, Sally jumped up off the couch.

"Consider purple, will you?"

"For," Susan asked, her eyes darting around the group.

"For the color of your bride's maid's dresses Susan, only please don't pick a shade that's too dark. My skin tone tends to look muddy against darker shades."

"Just what is going on here?"

"Don't try and deny it, Susan. We have all the facts."

"Ah, you have all the facts do you, Steve? A fly on the wall you were? Overheard, or should I say misheard our conversation, did you?"

"Actually we had your every move deciphered by Jeff here."

"Jeff? Yes, I see. The same person whose comments after observing _Psycho_ with the volume turned off were, _not very_ _smashing as a musical-comedy-drag, Hitchcock should have_ _stuck with dramatic thrillers_."

"So what are you saying? You two aren't getting married then?"

"No!" Paul spoke a little too eagerly. "No, marriage certainly isn't in the cards for us."

"So then how do you explain the hand holding and the engagement ring?"

"Rather easily Jane." Susan did a double take, "The engagement ring? Listen you lot, I was holding Paul's hands as a form of comfort as he's recently lost his mother. And the so-called engagement ring was this," Susan thrust out her hand, displaying a gaudy ring with a brass-toned band wrapped around a tacky aubergine gemstone. "It's a ring I picked up at an antiques market in Paris where Paul and I spent a long weekend together. I'd stopped wearing it because it turned my finger green. But I loved this flashy little ring and I thought I'd lost it. While Paul was home going through his mother's effects he found it in amongst a box of his own treasures. I kissed him, because I was so overjoyed to have it back again!"

"Ah."

"Yes ah indeed!"

A silence befell them.

"Right, well the barkeep has just announced last call so, perhaps I'll get us all a night-cap."

"Yeah," Paul cleared his throat and moved forward, "I'll help you with that, Steve."

Pulling Susan aside, Jane admired Paul's view from behind. "Susan?"

"Yes, Jane?"

"You actually had that?"

"Well I don't think I'd have put it so crudely, Jane. But yes. Paul and I, we were quite the item that summer."

"Really, I mean I just don't see it."

Returning with the drinks, Jane led Paul to the sofa. "Here, Paul. Why don't you sit next to me?" She gave his arm a squeeze, "Oh, how very strong and fit you must be."

"Well," Uncharacteristic of Paul, he decided not to resist Jane's blatant overtures, "it's my military training. We take serving our country quite seriously you know."

"So where are you off to next then, Paul?"

"I'm going up north."

"Back to Yorkshire, you mean?"

"No even further north than that, to Scotland. More precisely to the highlands, a place called Glenbogle."

"Ooh, I've flown over Glenbogle!"

"Have you?"

"Jane's an air-traffic reporter," Susan explained.

"Once I made the pilot follow a motorcade all the way up the A9. And we went right over Glenbogle, we did. Flying so low I could read the sign. It's such an ancient place that isn't it? What, with all those peaks, would have to be?"

"Peaks," said Jeff to no one in particular.

"Don't know. I've actually never been."

"Haven't you? Why are you going then, for a bit of stalking?"

"Well, in a manner of speaking Jane yes, I guess you could say that. I'm going in search of my father. I've got a map, a picture and a letter from the solicitors."

"Well, good luck with that, mate."

A wry smile appeared on Steve's face. "If I've got this clocked accurately Paul, you're actually well-past the maximum time allowed for military leave, aren't you?"

"Yup," Paul took a deep breath.

"You mean you're A.W.O.L.?"

"He's what, Patrick?"

"He's A.W.O.L., Jane, absent without leave."

"You mean he's a fugitive? Oooh how exciting, I've never dated a fugitive before!"

"Probably the stupidest thing I've ever done but if I find what I'm looking for, it'll have been worth it."

"Let's have a toast then," Patrick held up his glass, "to old friends, new friends and to whatever lies ahead for each of us. Cheers mates!"

_**Steve & Susan's Flat**_

_**Midnight**_

Before drifting off to sleep, Susan glanced at her bedroom walls, her eyes focusing on the colorful, softly-blurred scenes of two framed Monet prints. "Hey, Steve," She heard his barely muffled response, "I'm thinking of redecorating. Nothing major, mind you, just the bedroom. I believe I've outgrown some of this artwork."

_**Jane's Flat **_

_**Very Early Wednesday Morning **_

Paul and Jane, at various stages of undress, shared a very deep, passionate—full mouth—kiss…

After all, it wasn't a Tuesday anymore.

_**The End**_


End file.
